What If You Don't Die Tomorrow?

“You never know when you’re going to die.”

It’s one of those phrases that sounds profound enough to stop a conversation. Most of the time it’s offered as motivation — a reminder not to wait, not to overthink, not to let fear keep you small. And almost always, the implication is the same: you might die tomorrow.

That framing has shaped more decisions than we probably realize. It encourages urgency. It makes hesitation feel foolish. It gives permission to leap before you feel ready. There’s something freeing about it. If time is short, boldness feels logical.

But I’ve been thinking about what happens when we only look at mortality from that angle. When every reminder about life’s fragility is filtered through the assumption that it will be cut short.

What if you don’t die tomorrow?

What if you live to 120?

It’s a quieter question, but it changes everything.

When you imagine a long life instead of a short one, your relationship with time shifts. You stop thinking in dramatic arcs and start thinking in decades. You begin to consider not just how brightly you can burn, but how steadily you can endure. Your decisions stretch further into the future. You start asking whether your habits could survive repetition. Whether your coping mechanisms could withstand years. Whether your body, your finances, your relationships are built for longevity rather than intensity.

If you live long enough, you don’t just experience your choices — you compound them. Small patterns turn into defining traits. Temporary reactions become permanent realities. The things you ignore don’t disappear; they mature.

That awareness feels less cinematic than “I could die tomorrow,” but it’s arguably more powerful. It demands responsibility. It requires stewardship. It forces you to think about the version of yourself you’ll be decades from now, still living inside what you built — or neglected.

And the more I sit with that idea personally, the more I see how much it mirrors the way businesses approach their visibility.

We live in a culture built around immediacy. Trends rise and collapse within weeks. Algorithms reward frequency and novelty. Attention is measured in seconds. So naturally, many brands operate as if they too might “die tomorrow.” They chase what’s trending. They pivot constantly. They create content to stay relevant in the moment, measuring success by the latest spike in engagement.

It’s understandable. Urgency works. It generates movement.

But it rarely builds foundation.

If a company assumes it needs to survive the week, its media reflects that. Messaging becomes reactive. Identity becomes flexible to the point of fragility. Strategy gives way to survival. And over time, the brand doesn’t compound — it fluctuates.

Now imagine approaching media the same way you would approach a 120-year life.

If your brand is going to exist for decades, then visibility isn’t about noise; it’s about clarity. It’s not about chasing every trend; it’s about reinforcing a consistent identity. It’s not about what performs once; it’s about what builds recognition over time.

The tone you establish today becomes the voice people associate with you years from now. The values you signal become your reputation. The way you show up — or fail to — compounds just as surely as habits do in a personal life.

Longevity reframes media from something you produce to something you steward.

When you think long-term, you ask different questions. Instead of “What will get attention today?” you ask, “What strengthens our positioning?” Instead of “What’s trending?” you ask, “What aligns?” Instead of “How do we go viral?” you ask, “How do we become unmistakable?”

It’s the difference between intensity and infrastructure.

None of this dismisses urgency. Just as in life, bold moves still matter in business. You still have to launch, to experiment, to take risks. But risk without strategy is just volatility. And volatility doesn’t compound.

If you might die tomorrow, you live bravely.

If you might live to 120, you build wisely.

The tension between those two mindsets is where maturity lives — both personally and professionally. Urgency keeps you from shrinking. Longevity keeps you from sabotaging yourself in the name of excitement.

The brands that endure understand this. They don’t confuse visibility with identity. They don’t trade clarity for short-term applause. They build slowly, intentionally, reinforcing who they are with every touchpoint, every message, every campaign. Over time, that consistency becomes equity.

The same way a person becomes the accumulation of their habits, a brand becomes the accumulation of its positioning.

“You never know when you’re going to die” will always be true. But so is this: you never know how long you’ll have to live with what you’ve built.

If your life stretches further than you expect, you’ll inhabit the consequences of your patterns.

If your brand lasts longer than you anticipate, it will inhabit the consequences of its strategy.

And maybe the real question isn’t just what you would do if you had one year left.

Maybe it’s what you’re building if you have fifty.

Texas Since 1995: If You’ve Held Power for 30 Years, the Record Is Yours

Since 1995, Republicans have held uninterrupted control of every statewide executive office in Texas. The Governor’s office has been held by Republicans for three decades — from George W. Bush (1995–2000), to Rick Perry (2000–2015), to Greg Abbott (2015–present). The Texas Senate has been under Republican control since the mid-1990s. The Texas House has been under Republican control since 2003. Every statewide elected office — Attorney General, Lieutenant Governor, Comptroller, Agriculture Commissioner — has been Republican for years.

At the federal level, both of Texas’s U.S. Senate seats have also been held by Republicans continuously since 1993. Senators Kay Bailey Hutchison (1993–2013), John Cornyn (2002–present), and Ted Cruz (2013–present) have represented Texas in Washington during this same period of state-level dominance.

This is not divided government. It is consolidated political control stretching across state and federal representation for nearly thirty years.

And that makes the campaign messaging cycle especially worth examining.

Because election after election, political ads insist Texas is broken — that crime is rising, schools are failing, property taxes are crushing families, the border is chaotic, infrastructure is strained, and economic stability is at risk. The message is urgent: “Vote for us so we can fix it.”

But when one party has governed for three decades, governance outcomes are not theoretical. They are measurable.

So what does the data show?

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The Power Grid and Energy Policy

Texas operates its own independent electric grid (ERCOT), largely deregulated under policies expanded during Republican control in the late 1990s and early 2000s. The goal was market efficiency and lower prices through competition.

In February 2021, Winter Storm Uri caused catastrophic grid failure. Over 4.5 million homes lost power. Hundreds of Texans died, according to state and independent analyses. The storm exposed vulnerabilities in weatherization requirements and grid oversight.

In response, the legislature passed reforms requiring some weatherization standards and created the Texas Energy Fund. But the broader deregulated market structure remains largely intact.

When campaign ads warn that the grid is fragile or energy security is under threat, the system in place is the product of decades of state policy decisions made under one-party control.

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Property Taxes

Texas has no state income tax — a long-standing Republican policy position. Instead, local property taxes fund schools and municipalities.

Property tax burdens have risen significantly over the past decade, largely due to rapid population growth and property value increases. Between 2012 and 2022, total property tax levies in Texas increased by tens of billions of dollars statewide.

The legislature has passed various tax compression and relief packages, including large-scale property tax cuts in 2023. Yet rising valuations have continued to push homeowner bills upward in many areas.

If ads promise to “finally deliver property tax relief,” voters must consider that property tax structure — including school finance reliance on local property values — has been shaped by the same governing majority for decades.

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Education Funding and Outcomes

Texas public schools serve more than 5 million students. State per-pupil funding historically ranks in the lower half nationally when adjusted for inflation and cost of living.

The 2019 school finance reform (House Bill 3) increased funding and teacher pay, but inflation has eroded much of that gain. Ongoing debates about school vouchers and education savings accounts have dominated recent sessions.

Meanwhile, standardized test scores in math have declined nationally post-pandemic, including in Texas. Teacher shortages have grown in rural and urban districts alike.

When ads declare that public education is failing, it is worth noting that curriculum standards, funding formulas, and accountability systems have been designed and overseen by the same legislative majority since the early 2000s.

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Border Security Spending

Texas has significantly increased state-funded border security operations under Governors Perry and Abbott. Operation Lone Star, launched in 2021, has cost taxpayers billions of dollars in state funds.

Republican U.S. Senators John Cornyn and Ted Cruz have consistently campaigned on federal border enforcement failures while also advocating for national policy changes.

Yet border security messaging often frames the crisis as exclusively federal, even as Texas has invested unprecedented state resources into enforcement.

The question is not whether border issues are complex — they are — but whether three decades of representation at both state and federal levels should produce measurable policy resolution rather than perpetual campaign messaging.

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Healthcare Access

Texas has the highest uninsured rate in the nation. As of recent census data, roughly 16–18% of Texans lack health insurance — significantly higher than the national average.

Texas is also one of the states that has not expanded Medicaid under the Affordable Care Act. That decision, maintained under Republican leadership for over a decade, affects coverage for low-income adults.

Rural hospital closures have also been a growing concern.

When healthcare access appears in campaign ads as a systemic failure, the policy decisions shaping that system are not recent or bipartisan. They are long-standing.

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Crime and Public Safety

Texas has experienced fluctuations in crime rates consistent with national trends. Violent crime rose during the pandemic years across the country and has since declined in many areas.

Campaign messaging often highlights crime surges in major cities. However, state criminal justice policy — including sentencing laws, bail reform debates, and law enforcement funding — is shaped at the state level.

Texas has also implemented criminal justice reforms in the past, including reduced incarceration rates during the Perry years through diversion programs. That history complicates simple “tough on crime” narratives.

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Economic Growth

Texas has experienced strong population growth and business relocation over the past 20 years. It regularly ranks high in business climate surveys. Job growth numbers are often cited in campaign messaging.

Those are measurable successes.

But rapid growth also strains infrastructure, housing affordability, water supply, transportation systems, and public services. These pressures are the downstream effects of policy choices around zoning, taxation, and regulatory frameworks.

If Texas is booming, leadership deserves credit.

If growth is creating structural strain, leadership also owns the consequences.

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The Core Accountability Question

When one party controls:

The Governor’s office (since 1995)

The Texas Senate (since the 1990s)

The Texas House (since 2003)

Every statewide executive office

Both U.S. Senate seats (since 1993)

— campaign messaging shifts from opposition politics to performance politics.

If ads say: “Texas is broken.”

Then the next logical question is: Broken compared to what — and under whose watch?

Democracy requires contrast. But when contrast disappears, accountability should take its place.

After nearly 30 years, Texas’s infrastructure, tax system, healthcare access, education funding model, and energy grid are not inherited systems from a rival party. They are the product of sustained Republican governance.

That does not automatically mean failure. It does mean responsibility.

Voters deserve advertising that reflects that reality — not messaging that treats long-term incumbents as outsiders still waiting for their chance to lead.

Because at this point, the record is not hypothetical.

It’s historical.

Presidents Since 1977 — A Historian’s Roast (Presidents’ Day Edition)

Presidents’ Day is the perfect excuse to pause, reflect, and maybe have a little fun judging the people who’ve been running the country since 1977. Historians don’t always agree, but if they did a roast over brunch, this is probably how it would go—ranked from best to… let’s say “more complicated.”

At the top, we have the guy who somehow made being president look effortlessly cool: Barack Obama. He guided the country out of the Great Recession, passed the Affordable Care Act, and managed to stay scandal-free—a feat so impressive it almost seems suspicious. For historians, he’s the adult in the room we didn’t know we were missing.

Just behind him in wisdom and “get-things-done” is George H. W. Bush. The father of another president, Bush Sr. navigated the end of the Cold War and built coalitions to win the Gulf War. Sure, he famously promised “no new taxes” and then didn’t stick to it, but foreign policy historians still give him high marks for his strategic savvy.

Next up is Bill Clinton, the president whose economic record was practically a love letter to Wall Street. Budget surpluses, strong growth, and a booming economy earned him high praise. Unfortunately, the impeachment saga reminds us that charisma and policy brilliance don’t always protect you from eyebrow-raising headlines.

Ronald Reagan reshaped American politics in ways that still echo today. Loved by conservatives and debated by economists, his legacy includes both Cold War triumphs and ongoing debates about the long-term effects of Reaganomics. Smooth talker, cowboy charm, economic controversies—classic Reagan cocktail.

Jimmy Carter earns his spot in the history books for moral leadership and human rights advocacy, though economic struggles and the Iran hostage crisis keep him from the very top. He’s the president historians love to respect, even if he didn’t always make the economy smile.

Fast-forward to Joe Biden, whose presidency is still fresh in the historical record. Infrastructure initiatives, climate policy, and industrial programs are shaping his legacy, making him the cautious sequel everyone is watching with curiosity.

George W. Bush’s tenure is a study in contrasts: 9/11 leadership and global health initiatives like PEPFAR earned him respect, but the Iraq War and 2008 financial crisis dragged his ranking down. His story reminds us that history tends to weigh mistakes just as heavily as successes.

And finally, Donald Trump—a figure who makes history interesting, if nothing else. Multiple impeachments, January 6, and ongoing institutional conflicts put him at the bottom of historian rankings, though his impact on political discourse ensures he’ll be debated for generations.

So this Presidents’ Day, as we honor the office, let’s raise a glass (or a coffee mug) to the highs, lows, and headline-making moments of the last several decades. From Obama’s cool confidence at the top to Trump’s headline-grabbing antics at the bottom, history is never boring—and neither is judging it.

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When YOUR Hospital Loses Funding, Things Don’t Get Better

There’s a growing narrative that frames cuts to Medicare and Medicaid as corrections to a system that only benefits “other people.” The conversation is often simplified into taxpayers versus recipients, responsibility versus dependence, us versus them.

But that framing misses something critical.

When hospitals lose funding, outcomes don’t improve. Systems strain. Access narrows. Communities feel it.

Medicare and Medicaid are often described as government assistance programs. In reality, they are part of the financial infrastructure that keeps large portions of the healthcare system operational. They help stabilize hospitals, fund emergency departments, support rural facilities, and reimburse providers for services that would otherwise go unpaid.

In many communities — particularly rural areas and lower-income neighborhoods — those reimbursements are the difference between a hospital staying open and closing its doors.

These programs help cover cancer screenings, dialysis, prenatal visits, pediatric care, mental health services, physical therapy, home health support, hospice, and routine checkups that catch chronic illness before it escalates into crisis. They underwrite trauma centers and emergency services that treat anyone who walks through the door, regardless of insurance status.

When funding is reduced, the effects are not contained to a single demographic.

They ripple.

It’s easy to say, “I don’t use Medicaid or Medicare.” That may be true. But the ecosystem you rely on likely does.

The teacher managing diabetes.

The rideshare driver working overnight shifts.

The nurse caring for your family member after surgery.

The elderly neighbor living on a fixed income.

The new parent recovering after childbirth.

Healthcare systems do not operate in isolation. When coverage gaps widen, hospitals absorb costs. When hospitals absorb losses, they cut services. When services disappear, access declines. And when access declines, outcomes worsen — for entire regions.

What does that look like in practice?

Emergency rooms become overcrowded because primary care clinics close. Wait times increase — not just for minor concerns, but for serious conditions. Staff burnout accelerates as fewer providers care for more patients. Specialty services, from mental health counseling to dialysis centers, quietly disappear. Rural hospitals — often the only one within dozens of miles — shutter, leaving heart attack and stroke patients with longer transport times and fewer survival options.

Preventive care declines, which means treatable conditions become catastrophic ones.

None of these consequences ask who voted for what.

We’ve seen similar dynamics in other public systems. Cuts to public education didn’t only affect one group of students — they reshaped entire districts. Arts programs disappeared. Counselor ratios ballooned. Teachers left the profession. Communities absorbed the fallout.

Transportation funding reductions didn’t stay confined to low-income neighborhoods. They altered traffic patterns, job access, and commute times across entire metropolitan areas.

When foundational systems weaken, the decline does not discriminate.

Healthcare is infrastructure. Like roads, schools, and utilities, it functions best when broadly supported and widely accessible. When its financial base erodes, the impact is collective — even for those who believe they stand outside it.

This conversation is not simply about policy preference. It’s about understanding how interconnected systems function. It’s about recognizing that stability in one area often underwrites stability in another.

A safety net, by definition, is designed to prevent collapse. When it weakens, the distance to the ground shortens for everyone.

The question isn’t whether Medicare and Medicaid serve “other people.” The question is whether we understand how deeply embedded they are in the systems we all depend on.

Because when infrastructure shifts, we all feel the movement..

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When Did Entertainment and Politics Ever Stay Separate?

Every so often, someone sighs on social media: “I miss the days when entertainment and politics didn’t mix! I just want to watch a football game or music awards without all the politics.” And I always think: when exactly were those days? Because if you look closely, entertainment and politics have been dancing together for as long as we’ve had stages, screens, and microphones.

Take Charlie Chaplin. It’s 1940, the world is at war, and Hitler is rising to power. Chaplin releases The Great Dictator, a comedy with a serious punch—mocking fascism, ridiculing Hitler, and warning audiences about the dangers of authoritarianism. People laughed, but the message hit hard: politics wasn’t just creeping into entertainment, it was taking center stage.

Or think about sports. Muhammad Ali, the greatest boxer of his generation, refused to be drafted into the U.S. Army during the Vietnam War. He risked his career, his title, even his freedom, all to make a political statement. Decades later, Colin Kaepernick knelt during the national anthem, igniting national debate about racial injustice. Football—a supposedly apolitical pastime—became a battlefield for social consciousness. Entertainment has never been neutral; it has always reflected the times.

Music has been even louder in blending politics and culture. Bob Dylan and Joan Baez sang in civil rights marches, their voices echoing the fight for justice. Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On captured the pain of systemic injustice and the turmoil of a nation at war. Harry Belafonte didn’t just perform; he organized benefit concerts for famine relief and fought for civil rights. Later, MTV’s “Rock the Vote” campaign reminded the world that music could move not just hearts, but voters. And in the 1980s, Madonna’s Like a Prayer video stirred national debate about race, religion, and social norms—proving a pop song could spark political outrage.

Comedy and television have always been part of the story. Saturday Night Live has been lampooning presidents and politicians since the 1970s, holding up a mirror to the absurdities of power. Shows like All in the Family didn’t shy away from divisive issues—they put them in living rooms across America, forcing conversations that were uncomfortable but necessary. Even today, award shows are overtly political: actors use their stages to call out climate change, immigration injustice, and inequality. Those speeches may make headlines, but they’re part of a tradition decades in the making.

Theater has also been a political stage. Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton tells a story from history, yes—but with a contemporary heartbeat, forcing audiences to think about race, immigration, and leadership today. Even centuries ago, court jesters used humor to critique royalty, and Shakespeare wrote plays that mirrored the power struggles of his society. Politics has always been part of the show.

And if you think this is just a modern phenomenon, think again: whether it’s medieval theater, jazz, rock ’n’ roll, hip-hop, or TikTok, artists have always reflected the world they live in, amplifying voices, challenging norms, and sometimes risking everything to make a point. Complaining that politics has “ruined” entertainment ignores the long history of cultural platforms acting as mirrors, megaphones, and catalysts for change.

So next time someone says they miss “the days when entertainment and politics were separate,” ask them: Which days, exactly? Because in reality, entertainment has always carried a political heartbeat. And it always will.

I Am My Ancestors’ Wildest Dreams—and I Know How Fragile That Dream Is

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I am living a life that, not long ago, would have been illegal by design.

I earned a Bachelor’s degree in Communication–Media Production from the University of Houston, followed by a Master’s degree in Mass Communication from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, where I graduated with honors and maintained a 3.8 GPA. I studied media systems, psychology, marketing, and storytelling—fields rooted in influence, perception, and power.

For generations before me, access to formal education was not merely discouraged for people like me; it was criminalized. During slavery, laws across Southern states made it illegal to teach enslaved people to read or write. Literacy was considered dangerous because it enabled self-determination. After emancipation, Black Codes and later Jim Crow laws ensured that education remained segregated and unequal.

The University of Houston, where I earned my undergraduate degree, did not admit Black students until 1960, following years of segregation upheld by state policy and reinforced by Plessy v. Ferguson (1896). Had I been born a generation earlier, my presence on that campus would have been prohibited by law—not by merit.

At the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, where I completed my graduate studies and served as a Research Assistant and Teacher, the institution itself did not integrate until the mid-1950s, following Brown v. Board of Education (1954). That ruling declared segregated schools unconstitutional, but implementation was slow and fiercely resisted across the South. When I stood in classrooms leading lectures, grading assignments, and creating exams for Introduction to Principles of Human Communication, I was occupying a role my ancestors were explicitly barred from holding.

I have spent years working in media production and communications, handling tools that shape narratives in real time. At WBRZ ABC Channel 2, I operated graphics for morning and afternoon news. At KRIV FOX 26 / UPN 20, I worked in newsroom environments historically closed to Black professionals except in narrowly defined roles. Broadcast journalism, like most professional industries, remained largely segregated well into the 20th century through discriminatory hiring practices—even after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 made such discrimination illegal on paper.

I’ve produced, edited, and cable-cast programming for Acadiana Open Channel, created in-house promos, and edited informational videos for state websites. Control over media—who tells stories, who edits them, who frames public understanding—has always been tied to power. Black voices were long excluded from mainstream media or relegated to stereotypes, often reinforced by law through licensing restrictions and ownership barriers.

I have also worked within institutions like the City of Houston Police Department, maintaining community outreach databases and implementing program requests. This matters deeply. Modern policing in the United States evolved in part from slave patrols—state-sanctioned forces designed to control Black movement. Even after slavery, vagrancy laws and convict leasing systems allowed Black Americans to be arrested for minor infractions and forced into labor. To work inside a law enforcement institution today—particularly in a community-facing role—is to stand inside a system that once legally criminalized Black existence.

Alongside professional work, I have consistently served in education, mentorship, and community engagement. I tutored and mentored K–12 students through I Have a Dream (IHAD) and The B.R.I.D.G.E. Ministry of Acadiana, supporting academic and personal growth for students navigating systems that still reflect historical inequities. I recruited nearly 200 volunteers to support community awareness and fundraising initiatives. There was a time when Black Americans gathering for education or mutual aid were viewed as threats to public order and were actively surveilled or shut down.

That same historical reality follows me into fitness and wellness.

As a Certified Personal Trainer and Group Fitness Instructor, teaching at YMCA, Crunch, Clean Camp, Achievement Fitness Center, Studio NiąMoves, and through The Fellowship of Fitness, I guide people toward strength, mobility, breath, and agency over their own bodies.

The YMCA, where I currently teach, operated segregated facilities for decades, with many branches explicitly whites-only well into the mid-20th century. In many cities, Black Americans were either excluded entirely or forced into separate, inferior branches. Public recreation spaces—pools, gyms, and wellness facilities—were among the most violently defended segregated spaces in the Jim Crow era.

That history matters when I stand in those rooms today.

From enslaved labor to convict leasing to forced sterilization programs that disproportionately targeted Black women in the 20th century, bodily autonomy has never been guaranteed. Even now, whose bodies are protected—and whose are policed—remains uneven.

In my classes—whether POUND, STRONG Nation, Aerial Yoga, CIRCL Mobility, or Joint Ventures—I emphasize safety, choice, modification, and empowerment. I do not take lightly the fact that I am teaching people how to inhabit their bodies with confidence in a country where bodily autonomy has always been conditional and remains politically contested.

As a Brand Ambassador for POUND Fitness, Clean Juice, and STRONG Nation, and as a SYNC Community Champion, I represent brands publicly, communicate values, and build trust with diverse audiences. Historically, Black women were excluded from brand representation entirely, or relegated to exploitative roles. Retail spaces—from department stores like Sears & Roebuck, where I once worked, to grocery chains—were often segregated by policy or practice, even when no sign explicitly said so.

Even churches and theaters—spaces where I volunteered as a videographer, teacher, actress, and sound/light technician—were not exempt. Sunday morning has long been called the most segregated hour in America, not by accident but by tradition, enforcement, and silence.

But being my ancestors’ wildest dreams does not mean the dream is secure.

Reconstruction gave way to Jim Crow. Voting rights expanded—and were later weakened. Educational access opened—and was undermined through funding, zoning, and policy. Civil rights were codified—and then challenged through courts, legislation, and culture.

History shows us that rights are not permanent. They are conditional, interpreted, enforced—or ignored—depending on who is paying attention.

That is why I do this work with intention. Why I stay educated. Why I mentor. Why I teach. Why I remember.

I am not exceptional. I am evidence.

Evidence of what happens when barriers are challenged. Evidence of what becomes possible when access is protected. Evidence of why history must be taught honestly—not softened for comfort.

I am my ancestors’ wildest dreams.

And I know that dreams survive not on gratitude alone, but on vigilance—because freedom, once won, is never guaranteed to stay.

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